Page 13 of Sinner's Sacrifice

“So, no evidence of a body or bodies?” he asked as he sat in a chair next to her. “Nothing we could take to the police?”

She snorted. “No. Cops don’t care about women like them.”

“So, what, you impersonate an escort in an attempt to get the pimp alone and get the contact information for a possible serial killer?”

“Yes, and it might have worked if you hadn’t interrupted and ruined everything.”

“What if he’d had a gun?” he demanded. “Or a knife?”

She just frowned at him.

“Let me see if I have this right,” he said, pinching the bridge of his nose. At this rate frustration was going to kill him. An accomplishment time and disease never could. “You suspect this man of abusing and controlling sex workers and selling them to a serial killer and you thought pepper spray would protect you?”

“It was working,” she said through clenched teeth.

“He would have killed you.” Yvgeny held up a hand when she would have responded. “Because,” he said with quiet intensity. “That’s what would have happened to you if he’d gotten you alone.”

“I was prepared to fight him off.”

“Were you?” he asked. “How? With your spike heels?”

“It worked with you, didn’t it?”

He growled, he couldn’t help it, she made him so angry. “It only worked with me because I don’t actually want to hurt you.” By the time he was done with the sentence, he was yelling. “Any other monster would have done horrible things to you because you hurt him first.”

“I can’t sit idly by while a killer targets woman after woman, hurts them, murders them, then gets away with it,” she said, her tone brittle.

He saw it then, a bleakness in her eyes that told him she was remembering the monster who’d killed her sister, who’d nearly killed her.

Samantha needed to help. It was written into her DNA, the same as her hair and eye color. It was going to get her killed if that need wasn’t met in a safe manner.

“You said you treated a couple of sex workers this pimp was...managing?”

“Yes,” she said as she wiped away a tear before it could fall.

“Do you think they saw or know anything?”

“Maybe. One of them texted me asking if I’d seen a mutual friend, but I haven’t heard from her in a couple of days.”

“Would she have reported it to the police?”

She huffed out a laugh. “Not a chance, she’s as terrified of the cops as any possible serial killer.”

“What if she were assured of protection?”

“The police would never agree to—”

He cut her off, “I’m not talking about the police.”

She stared at him as if she’d never seen him before. “You?” She shook her head, her nose wrinkled in disgust. “And what would she have to do to keep this protection?”

Her words hit him harder than any fist, driving the air out of his lungs. Her opinion of him was worse than he thought if she believed he’d want to add pimp to his resume. “I’m not a pimp.” He worked to control his expression, leaned back, and draped his arm along the back of the chair. “Is that what you think of me?”

She shrugged, but there was a tension in her shoulders that told him she wasn’t as relaxed as she wanted him to think. “You’re a strange guy, Yvgeny. People are scared of you, and I’ve seen you do some weird shit. Are you a pimp?”

“No. It’s true, I’m not a good man, but prostitution...” he looked away, then forced himself to meet her gaze. “Back in the old country.” He wasn’t going to say how long ago. “My older sister was a sex worker. She died far too young.” And she had. In the same wave of the sweating sickness that had turned him into something more than human. “Besides, my aunt is the head of our family, and she mourns my sister still. If she thought I had anything to do with prostitution, she’d rip my balls off with her bare hands.”

Sam’s mouth dropped open for a moment, then she said, “Oh.”